Gil Estel
by Mirach
Summary: A story about hope and despair, as Eärendil the Eternal Mariner watches from above the last of Elros' descendants battle for his life. This is a real-time story, updated every day - now complete
1. September 23rd

**Disclaimer: **This story is my tribute to the imagination of J. R. R. Tolkien. The characters are not mine, and I get nothing for writing it, besides good feeling.

**Rating: **T for description of injury

**Beta: **openmeadow

**A/N: **This is a "real-time story" that will be updated every day!

Dedicated to my friends openmeadow, Windsurfbabe and Lirulin-yirth-k'aio.

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**Gil-Estel**

_But on him mighty doom was laid,__  
till Moon should fade, an orbéd star__  
to pass, and tarry never more__  
on Hither Shores where mortals are;__  
for ever still a herald on__  
an errand that should never rest__  
to bear his shining lamp afar,  
the Flammifer of Westernesse._

_***  
_

September 23rd, 2986 T. A.

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I watch today. I watched yesterday. I will watch tomorrow. That is my fate – through the days, through the years, through the centuries. To watch… to pass and tarry never more…

Today I watch one man. He runs on a steep path in the Misty Mountains, through the winding shrouds of mist that gave them their name. Mist and darkness and cold stones surround him, and he runs like a deer hunted by wolves, looking behind himself every few moments. There is haunted expression in his eyes; they glisten like the eyes of a trapped bird that breaks his wings on the grates rather than accept the cage.

No… they glisten like the eyes of a warrior in the desperate fight for his life, in that moment when the shapes of the world are so sharp, and the sounds retreat into background, and every fiber of his body hums with tension, prepared to fight or flee. I know that moment… there are no thoughts in it, or they are strangely disconnected, like looking at your body from outside. No hopes, no fears… just the pure life, the heart beating in your chest, the movement of every muscle, and the sharp details of the world. It is an intense feeling when every moment can be the last, when every second can make the decision between life and death, and the senses sharpen, and the present is everything that matters.

The man runs, and death is at his heels. Orcs follow his track, and they are many – too many for one man to fight. I can only imagine how this chase began. I don't even know how long he has run – the short time of night when I pass above this place is the only knowledge that I have about him. However, I can see the breath forming small cloud of mists before his mouth. It comes in quick, short gasps, and he staggers and stumbles on the rough stones of the path. He must have ran for many hours… and there is nowhere to hide high on the mountain pass, just rocks and ravine and high peaks crowned with snow looking proudly from above. Steep slope lines one side of the path, and deep valley the other: forwards is the only way, speed is the only chance.

Oh, but he is exhausted, and orcs are tireless… he knows that he can't outrun them for long. Yes, he knows it – I see it in his eyes. But they are not defeated yet – the look in them is a look of determination – the look of a fighter. I know the man… I recognize his face, his features. The likeliness… It steals my breath for a moment, when I realize how similar they are – my son and this man…

Before my eyes, the years seem to blur together. The many faces, the branching tree of descendants: its branches flowering and bringing fruits… its branches withering and dying… its branches broken and burned on the pyre of passing years. I had two sons – two young trees under the brighter sun of a younger world. But the world has changed… the fates have changed…

Two young trees: one of them is evergreen, its leaves do not fall, slowly growing, and living forever. The second tree is different. It grows quickly, and its leaves wither and fall, the old wood dies, but the tree branches through centuries by new sprouts. Oh my sons… I planted two trees, but did not watch them grow. I was a poor gardener. I left you for the fate of the whole Middle-earth. I wanted to give you a future, but for the future, you had to trade a father…

Then a white gull flew to me with the last rays of the sunset, and my heart rejoiced. But there was strange bitterness in that moment. I had to think of you – mere boys, left parentless in the shadowed world – for the fate of Middle-earth that seemed like a foolish hope in that time. Yet my message reached the ears of Valar, and the Forces of Arda stirred in one magnificent and terrible fight. The evil was defeated… but it was a high price for you, my little trees…

I was allowed to sail above Middle-earth and watch… but never set foot on its shores again – the eternal mariner without haven on the shores where his heart stays. Yet now I do not know: was it a gift… or a curse, punishment for walking where no mortal should have walked and seeing things forbidden to the sight of the Second-born?

I was allowed to be the Star of High Hope, and bring light into the hearts of my descendants. It was a gift, to see the new hope in their faces when they beheld the light that I was allowed to bear. It was both gift and a curse to see my sons again. They knew… Watching the light of my lantern, they knew that I am there, watching them, too. It was a connection through the distance of the skies: at least some connection between us. Oh, as I saw them for the first time, I wanted to shout, and hope that they will hear my voice. I wanted to apologize, to explain, I longed for their forgiveness. I wanted to tell them, that there was no other way; that I am so sorry for leaving them alone…

A curse it was, to watch, and not be able to do anything. _To pass, and tarry never more… _It was a curse to watch one of my sons die, while having the life of an immortal myself. Parents shouldn't watch their children die… There were times of glory, when I watched my descendants with a smile on my lips. But soon I learned to fear to smile. I saw the downfall of Númenor, I saw the rising of the new evil – the servant of Morgoth rising to replace his lord, and the failure of Isildur, and the last ride of Eärnur. I saw them fight and suffer, fail even, and my helplessness was a burden almost too heavy to bear. And still it is…

"Elros…" I whisper when I see the face of the man. So similar they are: not by appearance, but by something deep within… I know him. He is the last of my son's line.

He looks up, and our eyes meet. He does not know that, he looks to the Star of High Hope, not to me, his ancestor. The hope is in his eyes with the reflection of Silmaril, but what is the hope good for, when there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide before the nearing death on the crude spears of orcs. What is watching good for, when I must watch the diminishing of the proud line of kings, and the death of the last descendant of Elros' blood? I crush my fist into the wood of my ship angrily. Oh Valar! Why did you curse me so?

I cannot watch anymore… The high peaks mercifully veil my sight. As though in dream, I sail to the West, away from the shadowed Middle-earth. Valinor awaits me – peaceful and beautiful as ever, as if these dark shores were nothing but a bad dream that can vanish with the morning light. As if nothing happened… as if the last mortal descendant of my line was not running and fighting for his life this very moment. If it is a dream, then it is one that I cannot wake from. The world seems dull to me, even the scent of the blossoms in Valinor is veiled, as if I was walking through mist. I find no peace in the Blessed Realm. Tomorrow, I will sail again. I fear the sight that I will see below on a nameless mountain pass.

* * *

_The Song of Eärendil_ - J. R. R. Tolkien: The Fellowship of the Ring, Book II, Chapter 1: Many Meetings


	2. September 24th

September 24th, 2986 T. A.

I pass above the same place again. There are tracks on the path, barely noticeable on the stony ground – only the heavy soles of orcs leave the small stones crushed in their trail. There are no other signs of what happened yesterday... I follow the path with my vision. It winds through the mountains like a snake into the valley below. From there, if one knows the hidden paths, one can get to the secret valley of Imladris. I pass over many miles of the path, but there is no sign of orcs - or their prey. A small hope begins to grow within me. If he managed to run until dawn… The orcs do not walk in the sunlight… If he found the strength within himself to run until dawn…

Suddenly I have a vision before my eyes: I see him. He looks behind, to the east, to see if his pursuers are nearing, and the first rays of sun meet his face. The rise of Arien in the mountains is glorious, the sunrays reflecting on the proud peaks, glistening on the dazzling white snow high above, colored with the subtle blush of the eastern horizon. Hope, relief… exhaustion. One more day of life… Salvation… or just a delay? Ah, if he would be able to run without stop through the whole day… if… I sigh. I saw him yesterday. His clothes were worn-out and torn, as though after a long and hard journey through the wilderness, and he looked as if he hadn't eaten for days. How long did the chase last already? Long, I fear. Too long.

The image before my eyes is vivid, as if I could see him. Karmë; the elves call these pictures that they construct in their mind. But I have no control over the picture. I wish the man in it would have the strength to run on, yet he does not. In the moment when the first sunrays touch his face, his eyes smile at the dawn, but his legs finally give way under him, and he collapses on the stony path, following the rising sun with fading vision. I scream at the vision to stand up and run, but he does not have the strength for it… Finally, when the sun passed its zenith, he opens his eyes, and struggles to his feet, swaying in the first steps, and leaning at the stone wall for support. Slowly he begins to run again, with his goal before his eyes. And then I can finally see him with my eyes, too, a figure on the path high in the mountains; so small compared to their distant monumentality. He runs to Rivendell. To safety…

No, Rivendell is too far! The orcs are nearing… I can see them from above. Only one curve of the path separates them from him now. In a mere few moments they will see him, and the line of Elros will end. I hang my head in defeat. It is over…

But I cannot avert my eyes for long. Like one entranced, I must watch, but cannot act. When I look next, it takes me a moment to orientate the scene below. Orcs have swarmed the narrow path where he has been a short while ago. However, they do not cheer like hunters celebrating their kill. They look confused…It is hard to see clearly what lies at their feet: I fear to see a lifeless body on the cold ground, but I cannot find it with my sight. What happened? Did he escape them? Did he hide? Where? How? There is no cover between the steep slope on one side of the path and the cliff on another! Yet I can't see him on the path… nor can the orcs; they shout something at each other in their dark speech. They are as confused as I…

But I have the advantage of a view from above. I take a deep breath. I must calm. I need to think clearly and find out what happened. I must look carefully, and search for some sign that would help me to solve the mystery. I look caref… Ah! There, below the edge of the path! Hanging above the abyss on a precarious hold… I hold my breath. They do not see him! The hope that I saw in his eyes… now I have it again: for him… for us both…

Ai, but his feet tremble, and hands are slipping from their vague hold. He is exhausted after running many miles… he cannot hold on much longer! I realize that my own hands are clenched – as if I could help him to hold on the slippery stones. And the orcs still tarry on the path… Go away! Don't look over the edge! Do you hear me, filthy creatures? Go away! There is nothing for you here!

Time runs short. His teeth are clenched and sweat is dropping from his forehead, running down his temples. Just a little while longer… just a little while…. Every moment is torturous to me, but how it must feel to him… the growing weakness of his body, the slipping hold of his fingers, the voices and steps of the orcs above – so near that they could touch him… Death waits on both sides: on the rocks below, and on the spears of orcs above. And between them, there is a small place of balance that can tip the scales to one side at any moment.

I don't remember when I last prayed to Valar. Somehow, one does not feel the need to pray when he could see them by his own eyes. Now I do. I, for whom centuries are like mere moments, feel now the precious seconds stretch like eternity. Maybe the Valar heard my prayers. Maybe it was a mere luck. I do not care. Everything that matters is, that the orcs are leaving…They turned away from the edge of the path, and moved forwards, assuming that their prey must be on the path ahead.

He waits until they disappear from sight behind the curve of the path. Just a little while longer… His teeth are clenched, and his eyes shut – I can almost feel his ragged breath and drops of sweat as they run down his temples, the fingers ever so slowly slipping from their hold, the trembling muscles on the verge of their limits. His strength wanes…

A little longer… No, now! Now, or never. Now… or death. The last effort, the very border of strength. He opens his mouth in a noiseless scream, urges the cramping muscles to work… He hoists himself to the edge of the path. His hand searches desperately for some hold… I wish I could take the hand firmly, and help him back to safety, but he will make it without me. He will – I must believe, for I cannot reach to that what I have left. I can only watch – watch and hope. And believe.

He has reached a hold – one of the stones forming the path. I sigh with relief. He _will _make it. He will… NO! Oh no! Elros! My son…

* * *

"No…." With a quiet sob I sink at the board of my ship. My mind is dull, as though it refuses to comprehend the images that replay over and over before my eyes.

The stone loosened. Bleeding fingers searching vainly for hold. No strength - no strength to hold on any longer. The short moment of balance before the fall. The look in his eyes – almost surprised. The fall – silent, no time to cry out, to comprehend what is happening. The desperate attempts to grasp some of the rocks during the fall – he slides alongside the sloping face of the cliff. The dull rumbling of the stones that his fall loosened. The last echoes and the jingle of the last small pebbles. The deafening silence, and the broken, motionless body lying on the bottom of the valley. The blood on the cold stones…

No! Oh Valar, no! Please, make the picture be just a nightmare. The line of my son cannot end now! Not now, not here… not this way! The evil is rising again. There is so much to do! You cannot die, heir of Isildur, heir of Elros! Do you hear me? You cannot die… Aragorn! Aragorn… I remember his name. I remember the moment when I watched his father die by an orc arrow. It seems like yesterday. I saw the arrow coming. I wanted to warn him, to shout his name… and I was as helpless as today. But Arathorn had left a son, and I still had hope. Now… Oh Valar, now I saw his son die without heir, and all the hope for Middle-earth that was in that line vanished before my eyes like the mist in the morning.

What have you done to me? You condemned me for the fate of Húrin! You condemned me to watch the cruel fate of my children! You made me a Star and messenger of Hope, but have no hope anymore. I guide my ship to the West, away from the fateful place, but my heart is empty, and the glow of my lantern seems to diminish.


	3. September 25th

**Warning: **The rating (T) is because of this chapter

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September 25th, 2986 T. A.

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I do not know how the time passed until Arien's ship returned to its haven and it was time to sail again. I did not want to… I almost refused. But, at the end, I sailed – just as I sailed the day when Númenor fell. Just as I sailed the day when Isildur's body sank to the bottom of Anduin, and in the day when Eärnur rode to the Dark Tower. It is my lot and my duty, and my restless spirit cannot stay here, even if it means seeing that fateful place again, with all the images that it will bring… even if it means to see the lifeless body at the bottom of the valley, and realize the consequences again and again, with freezing certainty. I must sail…

I don't want to look when I pass above the place, but it draws my attention, and I feel like a butterfly drawn to the light of fire. I know that the look will burn into my mind – but I cannot avert my eyes. It is quiet below me – almost peaceful. Nothing speaks about the drama that took place here yesterday. With heavy heart I seek the body of my descendant.

…And that heart almost stops. It is not there! What… What happened? What does it mean? Did the orcs find it? Or wild animals? Nothing, just the stones loosened by his fall… Oh, Heir of Isildur, you did not deserve such a fate… You should have been buried with honor in a mound on the North, at the side of your father… or even on a bed of stone in the silent street of Rath Dînen. Why is the fate so cruel? Why does it not afford the dead their rest? I sigh bitterly. I could have known how cruel it is… for thousands of years I watch it. I above everyone else should have known how unfair life is. And still it pains me… and it always will, I fear.

I already want to avert my eyes, and… no, not forget. Such a moment I cannot forget, not until the Moon itself will be extinguished and my lot will end. I can try to dull the pain of the memory by concentrating on other things. The rudder will need some repair again, and the planks in the lower deck are…

There! What is the dark shape below? No… that is not possible… is it? I have seen his fall, I have seen him dead! But… what if what I thought for death was a mere unconsciousness? Oh Valar…

Suddenly, I do not want to pass above the place as quickly as possible. I slow my ship, and look carefully at the dark shape of a man in the valley below. Bloody traces lead to the place of his fall. Does he live still? I do not know… I still do not dare to hope, I fear that the disappointment would break my heart. He does not move. His eyes are closed, and pain is visible in his pale face. A blood-stained piece of cloth is wrapped around his head – there was a deep gash after the fall.

My mind works quickly as I try to fill in the blank spaces. He must have regained consciousness, and shredded his cloak to bandages to stop the bleeding. He used his own sword as a splint, I realize when I see his leg, and remember the odd angle that it was at yesterday. For a moment I shiver when I realize what he did. He set the broken leg with his own hands… I try to imagine the resolution that it must have taken… Every touch of the injured bone must have been extremely painful… I remember the short glimpse that I had yesterday. I thought him dead. After such a fall… he was lucky to end with just a broken leg and several gashes… and concussion, most probably. Still, the injuries are serious.

It is even more painful to imagine how he set the broken leg. I was a healer, when I still stayed in Middle-earth. I don't even want to think about it, but I cannot get the images out of my mind. I have seen too many injuries to supply me with them. Now I see him in my mind, positioning his hands carefully on both sides of the break - despite the pain – breathing deeply to prepare for more pain that will come, concentrating on the move that has to be done quickly, at once – nobody would have the strength of will to do it for the second time… and then, he did it. Ai! The sharp cry of pain never reached my ears, but nevertheless I can hear it in my mind. Then he passed out again – who wouldn't? Oh my son…

Oh wait… no, he did not cry…. There are deep traces of teeth etched into the handle of his knife. He bit into during the unbearable pain. Such a small, easily overlooked thing… traces on a knife-handle… I was gifted with the sight of Manwë's eagles when given this endless task, yet I would not notice it normally. But now, for some reason, it drills into my mind, and fills my whole sight for a moment, like a symbol of pain...

I wonder how he managed to cross the distance from the place of his fall. Slowly, painfully… one inch after another. He fought… He must know that Rivendell is near. I can see it from above, the hidden place of hospitability in the harsh and wild country. The valley that he is in is one of the mazes of similar valleys on this side of the mountains, beginning wide and shallow at their feet, rising and narrowing to their crest until blocked by one of the majestic peaks. There are many paths that lead up into those mountains, and many passes over them. But most of the paths are cheats and deceptions and lead nowhere or to bad ends; and most of the passes are infested by evil things and dreadful dangers. This one is blocked from the eastern side, but on the west it leads to the lowlands, and to the woods that surround the Last Homely House. It is not far – not far from above… Fifty miles. Infinity… Did he think that he can reach it? In his state, he cannot… or is it, could not? Is he still alive, or did Death finally creep to him on the black wings of mist, after the last effort to move forwards?

I watch the pale face under a blood-stained bandage, and wonder if his heart still beats. Then… he stirs! A moan… he opens his eyes… and looks into mine, seeking the light of Silmaril, and his own hope and determination in it. He lives… I wish I could give him more than just a glimmer of light. I wish I could let my ship land in that valley and treat his wounds, give him the water of healing from the wells of Valinor, and take him to Rivendell or to the West even, to Elwing's tower where the soothing hands of my sweet gull would care for his wounds.

Oh, cruel fate! I can only watch, and bring the hope that is deep in his heart to surface with the light that I bear. The hope that may be false… Without water and food, alone and injured in the mountains, he cannot make it so far. He would need a miracle… but the time of miracles is over. I have spent the last one…

Instead of a lifeless body I have found life where I did not hope to see it. Yet I have the feeling that the Valar punish me for my daringness by these sights. Or is it the fate that is mocking me by replacing a scene of quick death by long suffering and slow dying…?

As the valley leaves of my sight, I see him prop himself up on his trembling, bleeding hands, and crawl forwards: slowly and painfully, with clenched teeth. Determinedly. He cannot make it, and yet he fights, and bears the pain that every movement must cause instead of lying and waiting for death. Stubborn… like Elros, I smile bitterly. Oh my son…

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_There we__re many paths… _: J. R. R. Tolkien: The Hobbit, Chapter 4: Over Hill and Under Hill


	4. September 26th

September 26th, 2986 T. A.

As I did not want to sail yesterday, today I could not find rest in my haven. I had to think of him. While I dwelled in the Blessed realms of Aman, he struggled for his life in the cruel mountains. While I was at the side of my beautiful Elwing, he was alone, with nobody to soothe the burning pain, lying on the hard stones while I had the softest bed. While I was drinking the sweet wine of Tirion, he had nothing besides his own blood to moisten his parched lips.

When I sailed above Middle-earth yesterday, I saw no clouds, nothing that would shield him from the rays of Arien. It is late summer already, almost fall, but in these days she guides her ship above the realms of Arda as if she wanted to steal the last days for herself. How cruel must her rays feel to an injured man without water… I don't want to think about that, how much blood he had lost, and how his time runs out faster with every hot day. Hot days and cold night… as if the elements themselves were against him.

I was eager to sail today, as if I could do something. I wanted to shout at Arien to dull her rays, and then wanted to laugh at myself for such foolishness – if not for the thought of him, lying thirsty, in fever, under the merciless rays. And foolishness it would be – to argue with Arien. She is proud and terrible in her splendor. Her rays are hot, and yet she is cold like ice: she does not care for the fates of the mortals. Even the love of Tilion the Hunter does not soften her heart. She is devoted to her task – the guardian of the last fruit of Laurelin, the Maiden of Sun. The life and suffering of one mortal has no meaning to her.

And so I waited until her ship reaches the West, and first then I set my sails, as was my duty, and as will ever be. My hands trembled when I neared the place. The uncertainty… anything could happen while I sat idle in my haven.

This time I look carefully, so as to not miss the figure among the stones, and I wonder how far he managed to get until his strength gave up. I see him… Almost two miles away from the place of his fall. Such a short distance… and yet so far… so far, when every inch forwards means terrible pain. And at the end, it will not suffice… Rivendell is much farther…

And yet he struggles and suffers, now, in this very moment. His strength still lasts. How long yet? He reaches for the stones as an anchor to pull his weakening body forwards, moaning quietly with every movement of the broken leg.

Oh Valar, why have you condemned me to this fate? Why did you give me the sight that can discern the lines of pain on his face, when you forbid me to set foot on the Eastern shores ever again? I can see his parched lips, and the feverish glint in his eyes, but I cannot give him even a drop of water. I must watch his struggle for every step, and I cannot lift him, and carry him to safety. Cruel, cruel fate…

* * *

Ai! No! Crueler even… The orcs return! They have discovered that their prey had avoided them somewhere on the path. They return to their own tracks, sniffing. How bold they are, to pursue a Ranger so close to Imladris! Over the years they have grown larger and more numerous, the paths in the Misty Mountains that once were safe now swarm with danger: orcs and trolls and wargs… the darkness is growing. Its shadowy fingers are creeping over the stony hills and deep valleys, closer to him. Closer to Aragorn… Soon they will touch him…

They have found the place where he left the path… gathered on the edge of the path… an argument – there is no body below. They do not see him! Mercifully, he managed to get far enough to be out of their sight. One part of the orcs probably thinks that he is dead, buried beneath the stones, but the others think that he has survived – and want to see him dead… Shouts, fists – the argument upgrades. Then a spray of blood – the biggest orc beheaded one of the loudest arguing. The matter is decided, it seems. Which side has won? I wish it would be the one that wanted to return to their lair, and never pursue innocent creatures anymore… but I doubt that there was such a side…

They turn again, to return from where they came, to the mountains back to the east. I still don't know if they saw him, and how did they decide. I just hope that they won't return again.

However, Arien _will _return to the sky with the morning… Maybe I should hope that the orcs return soon, and grant him a quick death, if such a thing is possible with them… Yet I can't wish for that in my heart, even when the voice of reason speaks otherwise. I can't – it is my flesh, my blood – the last descendant of Elros. The last. _The last_… while he lives, while he draws breath, a part of my son lives… If only days are left… is it selfish to wish for the prolonging of the suffering? Why seems the time so important to me? For thousands of years the line of Elros has lived. Now, every moment matters to me… as if the very presence of that line would be like a light in the growing darkness, and with its death the hope would leave these lands… The last…


	5. September 27th

September 27th, 2986 T. A.

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Arien! Merciless Arien! Do you hear my voice? Why are you so cruel in your dutifulness? Why is your beauty so dangerous, oh proud guide of the Ship of Sun? Look at him! See what you have done, Arien! Look at my son! He lies beneath the bright stars of a cloudless sky, curled in pain of his wounds. His eyes are glazed over as he seeks the light of Silmaril in the sky, not having the strength to lift his head anymore. His cheeks are burning in fever from the pain and thirst under your rays. It is your fault, Arien! Do you hear me?!

I slam my fist into the rails. There! There! And again! The orcs! The mountain! Arien! With every punch a part of my fury dissolves into the old wood, and into the pain in my hand. Finally, when all of it has left me, I sink to the deck, drained, and bury my face in my palms.

Arien… forgive me. It is not your fault. It is the thirst that comes with your rays; it is the blood loss and pain of his injuries… but it kills him, and I cannot watch, doing nothing! Yet I must, and the burden grew too heavy when I saw him again today. It is my fault… My fault for being so helpless… Oh Valar, why? Why?!

Finally, after four miles, he has no strength left to move any farther. All that he has is… hope. Its sign I bear in my lantern, but I fear that a sign is not enough. Yet as I see its reflection in his eyes, for a moment I believe that this nightmare can end in a pleasant morning.

There it is – the determination still burns in his eyes. It reminds me on other times and places, on my own daring journey to the West through storms and mists, the many times I have almost given up and tuned my ship back. The moment of despair when I finally did, defeated by the illusions of the Enchanted Isles, accepting defeat to return home in shame. But suddenly a light! It shone through the illusions, through the storm clouds and mists. It was then when the Silmaril became a symbol of hope, after many centuries of imprisonment in the crown of Morgoth.

An echo of smile twists the corners of his lips – or do I only imagine it? It is as if he wanted to say "No, I have not given up yet. Foolish, isn't it?" He cannot see me, but I smile back encouragingly. Perhaps we are both fools…

However, in the next moment, there is no trace of smile anymore. He struggles to move again, to prop up on his hands. He fails. Once, two times… He does not give up. After a few tries his hands finally support him for a moment, enough for him to gain another foot of the endless journey. So he crawls, and my heart bleeds when I watch him.

Again he looks at my star, and for a moment I have the feeling that he does not see a star – that he sees _me_, that he looks at me, and into my soul. Maybe I only imagine it. Maybe not… who can say? I return the look, like when I sailed for the first time, and I saw my sons looking at the new star, seeing _me_… I return the look, and I see: I see _him_…

I see _you_, Aragorn… I see the truth, unveiled by my imagination. You are not Elros. You are not the son that I sired and abandoned in the world of growing shadows. You are my son through many generations, through the glory and fall of Númenor, and through Gondor's white towers and the mounds in Arnor. You are the last in Elros' line. But what if you were not? If you had an heir… would it be easier for me to watch your suffering? I think… it would. It is a bitter realization that says much about me. It would… until this moment. Now I see you, not my own picture in you. I see a man, not a line. A brave man, refusing to give up against all odds. A fighter.

I wish I could tell you that you are not alone in the cruel mountains. I am here… I am with you. I watch you. I see your thirst. I feel your pain. I feel your hope – and it becomes mine, and I return it in the light that I bear. There must be a way… There must be! You cannot die here! Not because you are the last, no. You cannot die because I will not lose you just when, after watching you for many years, I have truly seen you… Aragorn!


	6. September 28th

September 28th, 2986 T. A.

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Today, while Vingilot dwelled in its haven, I followed the eastern horizon. The dawn was glorious above the Sea, the reflection of sun dancing like a flame upon the waves, but my thoughts were in the mountains, following the dance of sunlight that brings colors to the pure whiteness of snow on the high peaks. It has been a long time since I have seen the dawn in the mountains, but now I imagined it, and I saw it in my mind like for the first time. Like for the last time… Did you watch the dawn, Aragorn? Did you watch it… like for the last time?

I saw the gathering storm clouds on the east, finally shielding the merciless rays. As I think about a storm in the mountains, I fear for you… They are cruel, and as merciless as Arien. They are unforgiving, as hard as their stones… The Misty Mountains, Hithaeglir.

For the whole evening, the storm clouds have gathered above them, to unleash their power at the dusk. Fear for you gave my ship speed, and it flew like a gull upon the heavenly streams. But speed does not part the clouds that veil my sight. Desperately I look for some gap between the grey mass. Only the highest peaks tower above them, coroneted by lightning in their sinister majesty. Almost as if the mountains were alive, and all living creatures have hided in the face of their wraith. But you cannot hide…

For a short moment the whirling clouds parted, and I see you. The rain is lashing your face that seems deathly pale in the short light of lightning. But your mouth is open, and you drink the rain greedily. At least one mercy in the long torment… Yes, your look is almost thankful… Oh Aragorn! You _are _thankful… You watch the storm that soaks your clothes and irritates your wounds, shivering with cold, and yet you are thankful for the mouthful of water... How terrible your thirst must have been! Your eyes are clearer now; the cold has beaten down the worst of the fever.

Yet I am not sure if I can be thankful, too. What seems like a reprieve now, can become just a delay, changing one torment for another… The storm peaks, the lightning crashes into the grim hills, bathing the scene in flashes of sharp light, and the thunders sound like a chorus from the dreams of the dead. Streams of water are running down the valleys, stones are falling from the heights; the elements dance a wild dance tonight! The wind howls! The stones crush! The thunder rumbles! A low, dangerous sound… And among it all, you lie motionless and watch the storm, like one entranced…

I realize now: it is more than thankfulness… You _love_ them! You love the mountains, just like I love the sea… When I watched the sea today, I imagined the mountains, but I didn't understand. I think I do now… Yes, there is a beauty in them – a dangerous beauty. Like this storm – as if it would reveal their true nature. It is… majestic. They are cruel and unforgiving – but just. Pure… There is no lie, no falsehood in the mountains. They are what they are, tall and unchanging in the stream of time. But they have their own life. I have seen the rise and fall of mountains, yet I needed to see them through your eyes to understand. They are wild and untamed, and there is such a place in the soul of every Man. Just like the sea, they resonate with that part of the soul, wild and free.

Now I understand the look in your eyes, Aragorn. You lose yourself to the mountains and the storm, becoming a part of their passionate dance, forgetting your own pain for a while… You… you watch them as though for the last time. As if you would think _this is a good place to die_… No! No! Do you hear me!? Do not give up to their seducing voice! Love them, or hate them, their cruel and dangerous beauty, but do not call death yet! You will not die here!

You shake your head, and sigh. And I give a sigh of relief too, because I know that you have resisted the temptation in the voice of the storm, calling for freedom. And again you struggle forwards, drawing strength from the strength of the storm and the mountains. The quick stream of rainwater running down the valley helps you; you let yourself be carried by it for a few steps, before it grows wild, and tosses you at a boulder, and you struggle for breath in the waves washing over you. It is like the mountains – beauty and danger, help and harm. Yet you let go of the boulder after a while, and let yourself be carried again. You must accept both sides…

The clouds close the gap again, and I lose you from my sight. It was just a short moment when I saw you, but it showed me more about the mountains then centuries of watching them from above. And it showed me much about you, too… I wish you luck, Aragorn. It is the only thing I can wish you against their dangerous beauty.


	7. September 29th

September 29th, 2986 T. A.

The storm passed. The mountains calmed. They are almost peaceful under the bright sky, washed by the rain and swept by the wind. Where are you, Aragorn? Did you survive the storm? The stars shimmer in the skies, as if one could reach his hand and touch them. I wish you could… but it is just an illusion in the brisk air. Where are you? Did the stream become too strong? Did you have the strength to resist it? Now only a thin rivulet of water flows down the valley, drying quickly, but the stones are still wet and cold. The air does not move. Everything is quiet. Where are you?

There! I let out the breath that I didn't realize I was holding. There… You clothes are torn and muddy. I almost didn't notice you… But you do not move! Aragorn! Aragorn! No, show me! Please show me that you are alive… You are so pale. The crimson blood contrast sharply to your pale face… The stream has taken away the sword that you used as splint and the makeshift bandage, and the gash on your temple is bleeding again. _Bleeding_…You live! You do not move, and your eyes are closed. Are you unconscious? No, your breath is regular and calm as it forms small clouds of mist before your mouth. You sleep… Finally, the sheer exhaustion won above the pain that didn't allow you to rest. How calm is your face in sleep, how peaceful… For a while you do not feel the pain…

Rest, my child. Rest… I watch over you. I wish your dreams would be peaceful. May they be about the ones you love. May you visit the places where your heart dwells… Ah, why do I have tears in my eyes? You will just rest, renew your strength, and then you will wake, will you not? Tell me that you will, Aragorn… Promise me! Promise me… I reach into the empty air before me, as if I could touch you, and stroke your cheek, push aside those unruly locks of hair that are falling to your eyes… Rest while you can…You will wake. You must.

* * *

Wake up! Wake up! Aragorn! You must wake up! The orcs! They return! They are in the valley! How? They left… How did they find the way here? That doesn't matter now, you must wake up! They are nearing… Is this the end? No, it can't be! Come on! Open your eyes! There is a chasm between the boulders where you can hide, but you must wake up now! Oh, what can I do? I realize that I shout, but you cannot hear me… In a desperate attempt I throw a brooch of my cloak – the first thing that came under my hand – in your direction…

Oh, what did I think? How many times did I try it, in hope to send some message to my sons? Nothing falls from here to the ground. The heavenly winds take it, and blow it away, to float in the heavens endlessly – like me. Everything on my ship is bound to my fate: never touch the soil of Middle-earth again. How many messages already float in the sky so? The brooch joined them, another reminder of this endless curse. There is nothing that I can do. Wake up, please… The orcs will see you soon… You must wake up!

Ah... Your eyelids flutter… Yes, open your eyes! You sense the danger, don't you? You are a Ranger… You don't need my warning. Even in sleep you sense the danger. Thank Ilúvatar, for my warnings are useless… You look around confused, not sure what has awakened you. Quickly! There is not much time! Your eyes widen in comprehension; you have heard the orcs. You look around desperately. Behind you! Behind that boulder! Hide! Yes, you see the place. Will you have the strength to get there in time?

I count steps until they will see you. Thirty, twenty... Soon they will see… You bite your lip when you turn on your belly, you cannot cry out with the movement of the broken leg! Fifteen… You reach for a stone to pull yourself further, and lie still for a while. A wave of dizziness? Ten steps… No, you have no time! You know it… You hear them, nearer and nearer… Seven. Come on! Yes, reach for another stone, another step forwards… Five. You bite your lip to blood. It hurts. Oh, I know how it hurts… but you must! You are almost there… Three… You have reached the boulders. The gap! Slip into the gap! Two… One last effort! A voiceless cry of pain! One… You did it! …They are in sight.

Now quietly. Do not move. Do not breathe… I hold my breath myself. They sniff around the place where you have been a few moments ago. They can smell the scent of blood… You shiver in pain, and clench your fingers into the unyielding rock. The position of your broken leg is most painful, but you cannot move… It hurts so much! I know… Hold on… They look around; one of them heads to your hiding place. He sniffs. No! Your fingers reach for the hilt of a dagger. They are too many, and you know it. You want to die fighting…

Suddenly a gust of wind blows in the still air. It blows to you. The orc sniffs once more, but he doesn't smell you. He turns, and joins the others that continue down the valley. Again I count the steps, until they will be out of sight. How important a few steps can be… How important can be few moments… One can live for long centuries, and the years are like ripples in the steady stream of time, and yet it is the bare moments that can decide…

How did the orcs come here? I saw them returning to the east, where they came from…. I was wrong when I thought that they would not return. They just sought a way into the valley. Maybe they even have some secret tunnel mouthing into it. The mountains are undermined by orcish tunnels.

They have gone. You cannot know it, you do not see them, and so you stay in the painful position, not moving, barely breathing. My poor lad… They are away. Relax… Finally you have no strength to hold still. You shift and cry out in pain as you move the leg into more favorable position. Then you tense, and clench your fingers around the dagger hilt, unsure if they have heard you. No, they are gone… Relax… Yes, you unclench them again with a sigh of relief. Then you rest your head on the hard stone, and close your eyes, the exhaustion clearly visible in your features. Rest, my child. You deserve it… but the rest doesn't come easily. You are in too much pain to sleep… You open your eyes again, and seek one star on the clear sky. Oh, why do I have tears in my eyes again?


	8. September 30th

September 30th, 2986 T. A.

The rays of sun do not reach the valleys today, as if Arien would hear me back then, and took offense in my words… The last sunny days are over – the autumn came to the mountains: the sky is grey above them, a mass of leaden clouds from below, and from above, too… The wind howls between the sharp stones like playing some giant whistles. They are as unpredictable as the sea, the Hithaeglir. The weather can change from one hour to another.

I curse the clouds, although I wished for them a few days ago… I curse them, the heavy curtain, for they don't allow me to see you! I hope for a small gap, just a little glimpse… I need to know that you are alright… Are you, Aragorn? I beg you, I beg the Valar: Please, be alright… O Manwë Súlimo, send your eagles for help! O Elbereth, may the light of your stars guide him to safety! Ulmo, great master of waters, may the rain whisper the words of comfort to him, the words that do not reach him from my mouth… Yavanna Kementári, merciful Earthmother, let all the things that grow in the valley shield him from the elements! Aulë, lord of stones, soothe the wraith of the mountains! O strong Tulkas, give him your strength and endurance to survive this ordeal… I beg you, brothers Fëanturi, you Irmo Lórien, to send him pleasant dreams in his suffering, dreams of light and beauty, and you Mandos… you I beg: do not call him to your halls yet! Vairë, do not end the thread of his life yet! Let him live… Let him live, please… O powerful Valar, I, Eärendil the Mariner, the bearer of the eternal light of Silmaril, beg you! Do you hear my voice?

Silence. Only silence answers me, and the howling of the wind… Maybe you hear, but you do not care… Once I called you, and you heard my calling, and you came! Now, those times are over… You do not meddle in the affairs of mortals anymore…. Now there is a new evil rising, and the only thing that you did was to send the Istari. In the disguise of old men, forbidding them to use their full powers… You do not intervene, but let the people of Middle-earth settle their own affairs, while you dwell in your peaceful realm, and enjoy its comfort and safety. The fate of one mortal is uninteresting to you… Where are your eagles, Manwë? For a whole age they didn't fly above Middle-earth… Where are the Istari? Two have left to the east, and disappeared from all tales, even from my sight. One reinforces himself in a tower on the south, and one cares more for animals then for people… The last Istar I do not see. He is the last hope of my prayer, he would be the last sign that the Valar care… But he is not here. The miracles are spent. You are alone, my son. The Valar will not help you… Alone…

I curse you, Valar! I curse you! Where are the times when you walked the whole Arda, and cared for all things that came to life through your song? Where are the times when you acted; not only watched? Watched… like me… Did you bring this fate upon me to match your own? This curse of helplessness… What have I done to deserve it? I have seen you and your realm. Is this a crime? Once you walked the paths of Middle-earth, and showed your face freely. Why do you hide now? Why is it that the one that has seen your realm can never return? What is there to hide? I curse you for this hiding, and for the fate that you condemned me to! I curse you for my son, lying alone in the mountains! I curse you for his pain! I curse you! I… I curse you…

* * *

You are alone… I cannot help you. They will not. If only the clouds would part for a while, and give me a short glimpse at you. I want to see you – I want to be with you, if only in thoughts and through the bond of sight. If you have to die here, you will not be alone. I will not allow it, even if all Valar would be against me. I am with you… So why do you shield my sight, heavy clouds? I must see him, don't you understand? I must show him the light for the last time… How much time do you have? It could be days… it could be hours. But the clouds are as deaf to my pleas as Valar. They do not part, and still their leaden mass veils my sight. I will not see you today…

However, the heavens above Rivendell are clear. It is clear most of the year; such is the power of the hidden valley. Are you there, Elrond? Many times I have watched your house, and the merry twinkle of fires through the high windows, shining afar like a beacon of warmth into the cold night. I watch the warm light, and I must think of the one that lies in the cold darkness. Where are you, Elrond? Where are you when the heir of your brother needs you? You are there, in your safe haven. Like the Valar…

The lamps and fires of Imladris are lit, but their light is not steady. A dark silhouette paces back and forth before the window. Others run through the hallways. There is a commotion in the Last Homely House this night, it seems. Can it be because of…? Should I dare to hope? Maybe he was expected… and when he didn't arrive in time… If it would be so, there is still hope… If it just would be so… Two horses are led out of the stables. Two riders mount hastily, and ride into the night. I know the riders, their raven hair and proud features… My grandsons… And I know the dark silhouette that stands in the window and watches after them. Elrond, my son… did you send Elladan and Elrohir to find him? Do you worry for him? May the horses of your sons be swift! May they find the one that is alone out there. I watch the two riders disappear from my sight under the veil of clouds, but in my heart, a new hope has woken. You are not alone, Aragorn. Hold on…


	9. October 1st

October 1st, 2986 T. A.

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Another day has passed. Today, the clouds are torn on the sharp stones, and connect again, drawn by the wind in a whirling dance. It howls between the peaks, and sweeps the valleys, and rain falls, steady and cold. It stings, and freezes. It weeps for the lost summer. It cries in anger, and whips the faces of the mountains. Here, between the stars, the weather is still the same, but its hostility falls fully upon you, my poor child… but they will find you soon. They will! I do not know how long you can endure this cold…

They should have already reached the place, shouldn't have they? They have strong horses; surely it can't take them too long… Maybe the clouds part for long enough for me to see how they find you, how they bring you to warmth and safety. Do I ask for too much? Or… do I hope for too much? They will find you; my heart does not admit any other possibility. After the whole ordeal, after you have endured so much, there is no other way! So tells my heart, and tries to silence the voice of my mind, that whispers about the many paths in the mountains, about the slim chance that they will find you in the valley where no paths lead…

Oh no… I saw you for a short while. You still lay in the chasm between the boulders. You didn't have the strength to get out of your hiding place anymore. No, no, please… You must get out! They will not see you when they come here! Vainly I look for them; I cannot find them under the clouds. I do not know if they are even near, or if they rode in the right direction at all, but they will come. I believe that they will. You must get out!

The clouds veil you again, but I hold the picture before my eyes, and I look at you in my mind, and study the detail that I didn't have time to realize. As I do, my heart sinks. You are ill, Aragorn… The paleness of your face, the cold sweat on your brow, and feverish glint in your eyes… Maybe your wounds became infected… Oh hurry! Hurry Elladan and Elrohir! There is not much time…

You must get out... One last effort, Aragorn, please… Then you can rest, I promise. I know that you have no strength left… but please, try! Maybe you can gather its rests, and find enough to get to a place where they will see you… Just a few steps… A few steps, and then you can rest. You can close your eyes, and when you open them, you will be in Rivendell, and warm fire will crackle in the hearth, and rain will tap on the windows, and a steaming mug of tea will await you. Or would you like broth better? You are so thin; I can almost count your bones… Yes, a steaming broth, and soft bed… I promise, Aragorn. I promise… Just please, make those few steps…


	10. October 2nd

October 2nd, 2986 T. A.

The clash of steel. The cries of battle. Whining of horses. That is what I hear from the mountains today. I recognize the voices of Elladan and Elrohir in the turmoil. My grandsons have met the orcs… They are near! Near the place... The orcs returned in their own tracks, and my grandsons followed. The orcs led them to you! Soon they will find you. Finally! Finally! I'm thankful that no cloud veils my sight of them for a while. My heart beats quicker in anticipation. Watching them brings memories of my own battles and the taste of blood in my mouth, and the song of swords ringing in my ears, with its own deadly melody, the feeling of the enemy's life on the edge of my blade.... They move like dancers in a dance of deadly passion. They lose themselves in the battle, and their swords are covered in orc blood. They raven hair flows around them as they move swiftly and graciously, not like two fighters, but like one fighter with two bodies. I am proud of them. It feels like satisfaction, to watch the orcs that hurt you being slain.

But my sight does not dwell on the battlefield for long. It flies to you…and suddenly my heart sinks. Those few steps. They were too much… You didn't have the strength to make them anymore. You will not have it. You hear the battle, you want to get there, but you barely have the strength to lift your head… You want to call, but your voice is so hoarse that barely a sound comes out of your mouth, and you grimace in pain as it strains your raw throat. Yet you try, again and again, until you have no strength anymore. Then you rest your forehead on the hard stones, and tears of despair flow down your cheeks. I wish I could wipe them away gently… The hope that I saw in your eyes. It is fulfilled. You knew that they will come. They are so close. And yet they do not see you, do not hear your silent pleas…

The last orc is slain. They wipe their swords with a grim expression of satisfaction and vengeance, tall and proud like elven kings of old, victorious. They survey the battlefield with keen sight, looking for signs of life to end. Look further, my grandsons! Look for the signs of life to preserve! Go higher into the valley, and behind that boulder you will find a waning life that is more valuable then hundreds of slain orcs! Elladan, no! Do not turn away! Do not leave, Elrohir! You are the hope that he saw in my light! You cannot turn away!

* * *

They left. And with them went the spark in your eyes. You know that nobody will help you now. You do not fight anymore. You wait for death… The rain has washed the tears of despair away. Your face is calm now, peaceful. Long have you walked with the hope in heart, but now you came to its end, and see no more paths before you. You look at the majestic mountains; you drink the sight – like the last one that you will ever see… High among the proud peaks, it seems that you are closer to the sky, and the clouds are your soft sheets. I feel a lump in my throat. Aye, it is a good place to die…

Your eyes turn to the sky. I know what you seek. I am here… You are not alone. I will not leave you. You want to see the light until the very last moment. You lay in darkness and despair, but darkness has no hold over you – you look to the light. And it is the only thing that I can give you to ease your passing. My light shines for you today, and you follow it with extinguishing sight until it disappears from the morning sky. My heart is heavy; I want to dull the light, and mourn: not for a line ended, but for you, you alone… But I cannot mourn yet. I must shine as brightly as never before. For you….

Sleep my son. Sleep… In sleep, you do not feel the pain and the cold. In sleep you are free, and your spirit can tread the hidden paths of dreams that take you to the hospitable lights of Rivendell, or to the golden woods of Lothlórien. May they take you to the white towers of Gondor in the times of their greatest glory, when the fountains sang in the shadow of the White Tree in its full blossom. May they take you to the Mouth of Sirion, fresh and green as I have seen it in my youth, when the river sang to me about the Sea and the distant lands to the West. May your spirit come to me in your dreams, and I will hold it close to my heart, and I will show you the most beautiful country where my ship has its haven, where the air is clear and sweet music resonates in every fiber of the land. I wish you could see it in a dream, I wish you could see the white shores with strands of diamonds, and the peaks of Pelóri, reaching to the heavens, lit by the light of rising Sun…

Sleep, my son… When you wake, the pain will pass, and soft breeze will soothe your tired eyelids. When you wake, you will be free…


	11. October 3rd

October 3rd, 2986 T. A.

How warm are the lights of Rivendell today…. How brightly they shine into the night… but you will not feel their warmth. You will not feel the rich scent of autumn coming to the hidden valley. The leaves will color to gold and red like the sunset on the sea as they will mirror in the calm surface of the river before the waterfalls. You will not see them…

There is a figure in the highest window, looking to the mountains. Elrond, my son… Do you feel his waning life? In the warmth of the Last Homely House, to you feel the cold creeping to your heart, like the bony fingers of death that are creeping to him in this very moment? You look to the mountains… is your heart in that hidden valley where my heart dwells this night?

Your brother chose the mortal fate, and you know the bitterness of his decision. You have watched him sail to the West, to his own kingdom of Númenor, and you knew that with every passing moment, he was closer to death. Did you feel it? Did you feel the death of your brother? Do you feel it now, my son?

It seems to me that there are new lines in your face. Lines of sorrow… When did the life write them there? It is a long time now since I have studied your face. It was too painful… Once I watched you every day, and let the light of my star shine more brightly for you. You were the herald of the High King Gil-Galad, and I was so proud… I watched you in battle, your fierceness and determination. I watched you when your hands brought healing to the wounded and ill. I watched your love, and I was as glad as a father could be. I remember the day when the twins were born, and Arwen, beautiful like the twilight in Valinor even as a little one… Oh, there was a light of pride in my eyes that almost matched the Silmaril…

The darkness touched you, my son. It has taken Celebrían from you, and silenced the laughter in the halls of Imladris. Once you looked to the stars every night, and sought the one that shone more brightly in response to your look. However, you ceased to look to the stars. The one that looked with you is not at your side anymore. She sailed to seek healing for her broken spirit in the beautiful land far behind the Sea. Maybe it reminded you at the empty place too much… I listened to the stories told in the Hall of Fire, and I felt that I'm becoming a part of the stories in your mind. A legend, something that was long ago and far away. I am _here_! _Now_! I wanted to call, but you do not hear me. Once you had a father that sailed the heavenly streams like a star. Now… Now there is a cold star, and an old legend about a daring sailor that abandoned his sons for his adventures…

It was too painful to watch, and to be reminded every night how I failed to be a father to you... Now you stand at the same window again, but you do not look at the sky. You look at the dark silhouettes of the mountains, and your heart tells you that your brother is dying…

Suddenly there is the old look in your eyes, the fierceness and determination! You turn away from the window, and soon I see you mounting a white horse, and gallop into the night. Your cloak flutters behind you, and the hooves sparkle on the stony path. Ride, Elrond! Ride! Your heart will guide you… Ride on the wings of wind!

* * *

Aragorn! Oh, Aragorn! Do not sleep… You cannot sleep now! Do not give up! Fight! There is still something to fight for! Oh, if you only would know… If only I could tell you… Your eyes are closed, and your face so pale, and worn, and thin… and peaceful… as though dead. You have given up. You are reconciled with death. You are reconciled with the fact that nobody will come, that you will die alone, with the cold stones for a grave. However, your chest still heaves in a labored breath, barely visible. Hold on! The rescue is coming! Just a little longer, please… Hold on…


	12. October 4th

October 4th, 2986 T. A.

Dusk comes to the mountains, and it seems to me as if the waning light symbolizes one life. The last rays sink behind the horizon… Does your heart still beat? Your eyes are closed; no movement, no visible breath, and your lips have a bluish tint… Fight, I beg you! Do not sleep! You are past waking now. Only a skilled healer could call you back now from the borders of death…

Oh Elrond, hurry! Where are you? You drive your horse through the quickest paths; you push aside the fir branches, and wade through streams in mad haste. You know the direction – your heart guides you. Will you be there in time? Every moment can decide now, every heartbeat…

Aragorn… hold on! You have the will, I know. I have seen it. You showed me the strength of your will and courage. You showed _me_ hope when I had none for you. You have found it in your heart through my light. Look at me, please! Look at me now! There _is_ hope… I just wish I could give it to you. But your eyes are closed. You do not hear my pleas. I am too far away… Now only someone close to you could take your hand, and guide you back to light.

Elrond, please hurry… You hesitate at the crossroad. There are many paths in the mountains, many similar valleys… You look around insecurely, then wrap your cloak tighter around you, and breathe at your fingers. O Eru, if even you feel the cold… Hurry, Elrond, hurry! You will choose the right way. I trust you, my son. You hesitate for a while longer, but then you nudge the horse in one direction, without a trace of doubt on your face. I knew that you would choose correctly…

You are close… You stop near the bodies of the slain orcs, and now a trace of doubt appears on your face. Your sons have been here already – they have been here two days ago, yet they didn't return yet, didn't find him. Oh no! Do not let the voice of reason silence the voice of heart! He is here, within your sight… He calls to you in his dreams… Do not turn away now!

You continue on your way higher into the valley. Slowly, carefully looking around… Yes my son, you are close…

Ai, but you do not see! The rain has washed all tracks, and nothing moves in the barren land, no sound… he has no strength anymore… You pass the place, and you do not see… Return, Elrond! Return! He needs you now! There is no time!

You continue on your way, and do not mind my cries… Oh Valar! Is this a punishment for my words? I cursed you in my blindness: I cursed you like the fallen kings of Númenor! Oh, what have I done? I was wrong, so very wrong! I didn't see… You did not let him die alone… but I didn't see the whole picture like you did. Oh Valar, forgive me! You guided my son so far… why you not guide him the rest of the way; show him where to look… If this is a punishment for my words, then punish me, not them! They have suffered enough…

Punish _me_! I call you! I call to the stars of Varda Elentári. Burn me! Crush into my ship, and destroy it, end this endless curse! Burn me, but let him live…

One of the stars is nearing. It is terrible in its beauty… I look to it. After the long centuries, and endless journeys, I face my death. I see the face of Elbereth in the light. I bow in humility, and expect my punishment. I will burn for my words, burn like the kings of old. Just let him live…

The fire does not come. I look up, and I see her face smiling at me, her eyes full of grace. In that moment I know: they have forgiven me… In her eyes I see my hope, and the song that resonates in the foundations of the world. And my heart answers with its own song. It was there for the whole time, but I didn't hear it. Now I listen, and I know what to do. I have known it the entire time! The starry eyes look at me for the last time, and a spark of mirth flickers in them. Then they disappear, and all the stars shine as they ever have, but I know what to do, as I have ever known. Thank you, Elbereth Gilthoniel! Thank you, merciful Valar!

* * *

Elrond, my son! You do not look to the stars anymore. Now I call to you, like your father. Look at me now! Look at me, and see my sign!

I take the Silmaril, and cover it in my hand, like a father should shield his child from the evil of the world. Only one ray of light I let shine through my fingers, and direct it at the place that I want to show you. Nothing from my ship reaches the Mortal Shores. Nothing… except the light of hope… Look at it, Elrond! Look and see!

You turn… Your eyes widen in astonishment. You see my sign! For a moment you do not move, do not breathe. Yes, my son. I am here, now. A man, not a legend… Follow my light!

You look at me. For a short moment our eyes meet. Then you let out a breath, and nod in comprehension. You don't lose any more time, but nudge your horse to gallop as you follow the light. Then you slip from the horse, and run those few steps that divide you from the place where the ray falls. There you stop, stunned in the movement. I can almost hear your gasp. I can almost see the tears that well in your eyes. But my sight is blurred by my own tears, and the lump in my throat doesn't allow me to whisper the question that burns in my mind. Does he live, Elrond? Does he still live?

You drop to your knees at his side, and pull him gently to your heart; you stroke his hair with one hand, as your search for a pulse with the other. Your hands, Elrond… They tremble…

A moment passes, torturously long…

A sigh of relief… He lives!

You hold him closer, and wrap your cloak around you both, giving him your own warmth. You need to threat his wounds, you need to take him to warmth, to the crackling fires of Rivendell, but you fear to move, to not lose him again… So you hold him close, and cradle him in your arms like a hurt child, forcing your warmth into the frozen body.

"It will be well. All will be well. I'll take you home…" you whisper over and over, and hold him, as I you wouldn't want to ever release your hold. But you must – if only for a short while, to take the supplies from the saddle bags. Then you pull him into your embrace again, and quickly but carefully change his wet and cold clothes for dry woolen sheets. You bring a small flask with honey-colored liquid to his lips. I recognize it – miruvor, the mead of Valinor! Miruvor… may it revive the blood in his frozen limbs again! May it bring the scent of summer among the cold stones of the mountains! May it…

…Yes! His eyelids flutter! You lean over him gently, and block my sight of his face. You take his hand, and whisper something, too quietly for me to hear. Then you kiss him on the brow, and breathe at his hands to warm them.

When I can see his face again, his eyes are closed. Did he open them? Tell me, Elrond, did he recognize you? It is important! It is the difference between life and death! If he recognized you, then he knows that there is a reason to fight…

You do not have time to answer my questions. Quickly and skillfully you treat his wounds. For a while your hand wavers, when you examine the broken leg. Like me, you know who has set it, and how painful every move was. Then you are the calm healer again, and you fix it in a splint. Yet your face is worried: it will take all your skills to heal it to full use of his leg. Later. You can worry later. Now you must get him to the warmth, to Rivendell, as quickly as possible to save his bare life!

You lift him on the horse easily, trying to be gentle with the broken leg. How light he is, how thin… For almost two weeks he had nothing in his mouth. You wrap him in the sheet, and in your cloak, and hold him firmly before you, his head resting on your shoulder. Like a priceless treasure you hold him. You have tears in your eyes, my son…

* * *

You rode with haste through the whole night, and my light lit your road, and guided you to the safest paths. Several times you stopped, and every time my heart froze. You were losing him, I knew, I felt it. You gave him a few sips of miruvor then, and whispered something soothingly, but urgently. You were his lifeline in the dark of the night. You did not allow him to slip away… With worry I watched the emptying flask of miruvor. About an hour before the dawn it was empty, and you forced your horse to mad speed. You clutched him desperately, and your hair blew in the wind…With the first rays of dawn, you finally reached the Last Homely House. Tears of relief blurred my sight. Thank you, Elbereth! Thank you, merciful Valar! Thank you for your forgiveness! Thank you for the haven of warmth and light. They are home…


	13. October 5th

October 5th, 2986 T. A.

---

The night is like ink. Wind and rain dance together passionately, like two lovers in an argument. For a few heartbeats they sound in harmony, and then they quarrel again. They beat into the high windows of Rivendell. But behind those windows, it is calm. Golden light, and warmth, and the tapping of the rain on the glass – like an island of peace in the wild night.

I see you, Elrond. You sit in a high chair near his bed, holding his hand. The fire in the hearth is burning high. He is covered by warm sheets. It is a peaceful picture, almost serene. Yet the hand you are holding is so thin and pale, and you hold it gently, to not press on the bandages that cover the fingers. Sharp are the stones of the Misty Mountaines…

There is a fight going on. I see it clearly in your face. You have done everything that was in your might, everything that could be done. Now you can only wait. That is the hardest fight: just wait and watch; the helplessness… I, the Endless Wanderer, know how hard it is. We share this fate tonight, my son. How peaceful it looks from outside… and yet, the storm is in us.

Its clouds are visible in your weary eyes, in the lines of worry in your face, in the movements of your hands when you wash the pearls of cold sweat from his forehead, in the anxiety in your features when he moans in pain. You speak to him, although he can't hear you. You sit at his side for long hours, and I watch you, and suddenly a lump forms in my throat. I know what your eyes tell to the silence of the night, to the closed grey ones. You wish you could take his pain, and bear it yourself…

There is a bond; deeper then it seems on the first look. You have fostered many of your brother's line, sheltered them and taught them. You have treated their wounds, sat with them when illness befell them. Yet I didn't see this look in your face before. It is that look which sends shivers down mine spine. You look at him like a father looks at his son…

How many times did I look at you with this look? I wished you could see it, and understand… Yet you have never seen it – I am too far away… And now, you are close to him, you hold his hand, and yet you are as far away as me: he cannot see the look in your face. You call his name, and he does not hear. My poor son… you taste the bitterness of my fate in this long night.

Sometimes I wondered if you have seen your brother in the scions of his house that have grown in the soil of Rivendell. They were all different, yet I have seen one face behind all those faces. When you have taken them to your house, did you think of your brother? Did you miss him? I did... When I saw Aragorn fall into the abyss, I thought of Elros, and his line. He is so similar… But he is not Elros, and you know it as well as I now. Your brother will never return, but the last son of his house has grown up in yours, and he became your son – not because of the face of your brother that you saw in him, but because of himself. He thought you the same lesson as he thought me: see beneath the surface, and discover the hope there…

Elros will not return. That is the fate that he chose and accepted, and nothing in this world can change it. Here lays the man that is from the line of Elros. But he is himself – the mortal boy that won your heart. The one that almost died alone, far from you… You stroke his tangled hair, and for a moment I see the deep sadness in your eyes, like the bottomless sea. Oh Elrond, you are losing him! You have almost lost him to the mountains, and now it is the illness that he has no strength to fight anymore… And if you can save him from the clutches of death now, then you lose him with every passing year while you watch, standing in the stream of time unchanged. The sadness of a father watching his child die… I know it. I have lived it…

But I know the other side, too, and I do not regret. He reminded me on it with every look at my light. It is the shortness of each moment that makes is unique, and it is the uniqueness that makes every day a gift. When I saw Elros with the crown of Númenor on his head, I was proud, so very proud… and I feel that you will know such pride, too, and the memory of it will live long after you leave the shores of Middle-earth, long after the world will change. You will not regret.

"_Ion nîn… _Wake up…" you whisper, over and over. "I am here… You are home…" He does not hear, but you do not cease. You fight for the life of your son this night, and you have only one weapon in this fight left: being there. When nothing is left, and you can only watch and wait, there is only one thing you can do. You are there. You call him, because you are his father…

You are tired, and the darkness of the night overwhelms you. You need someone at your side, someone that you can lean on to find your own strength to fight. You turn your sight outside, into the night. To me….

"_Adar_…"

Yes, my son. I am here…


	14. October 6th

October 6th, 2986 T. A.

---

The night passed into day, and the day into the next night. You sit in the chair in the same position, holding his hand. The fire burns high, and his eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, are closed. Nothing changed. Only the lines in your face are deeper, and the circles beneath your eyes darker. The storm passed already. It is quiet outside. It is quiet in the whole Rivendell…

And then, the change came suddenly. And not for the better.

"Estel!" you call him, with a trace of panic in your voice. _Estel… _but I have no time to wonder about the name. Elrond! What is happening? You must save him!

You call for clean sheets and cold water.

The fever.

The infection… the fever is rising. He burns… Ai, didn't he suffer enough? You work quickly, concentrated. The sheets soaked in cold water to beat down the fever. Oh did everything else fail? You know what you are doing. But I fear. He is so weak… Can he endure any further cold? Your hands waver. What is going through your mind? You know what you must do. You hesitate, and I know why. So long has he been outside in the cold, alone. How can you submit your child to it again? What if he will think that the warmth was just an illusion? That he is still there, still alone… What if he ceases to fight?

The fever rises too quickly. You know no other way. You do what you must. And for the whole time, you hold him close, speak to him, and stroke his hair. You are there, as much as you can. Is it enough? I see the tears in your eyes. He is in delirium. He calls you with hoarse voice - barely audible, and yet so heartbreakingly loud to you… and to me. A sob comes through his lips when you change the wet sheets for fresh ones, icy-cold. You do what you must, Elrond, but it takes all your strength to do it.

Then finally, the fever is beaten down. Its flush disappeared from his cheeks. They are pale again, pale as the snow that will soon cover the mountain passes. You shiver. Both of you… You sit beside him at the bed, and take him into your arms. To be close, to tell him that he is not alone…

And you, Elrond, you are not alone, either. Look at me, my son. Take comfort in my light. You know that I am here. Despite the distance, and time, I am here. I will ever be. No, it is not a curse. You yourself showed me how important being here is. It is a gift. Always when you need me, I will be here. Everyone loses his path sometimes, and I have lost it too. Now I have found it again, together with my purpose. I can be the light showing the path when you lose it, like I could show you the path to your son. And by doing so, I have found the path to you…

You look to me. You know that you are not alone. As does he… He stirs! You call him again. Yes, Aragorn, open your eyes! Come back to us! You are safe here, you are home! Home…

Aragorn! Slowly, not heeding the anxiety of his father… and many times grand-grandfather, he opens them, unfocused and full of pain.

"_Ada_?..." he whispers hoarsely, insecurely – as if he wouldn't dare to believe. Yes, he is there my child; your _Ada _is with you. He calls you, Elrond, with the name that I always longed to hear from your mouth... You smile at him, and all the weariness is gone from your eyes.

"Estel!" you breathe out. "I'm here... you are safe... I'm here."

"Hurts… so cold…" he whispers, and the short glimpse of pain in your eyes tells more than thousands of words ever could. He does not perceive his surroundings; he does not know where he is. But he knows that you are with him...

You pull him closer into your embrace. "I know, Estel, I know. Easy, my child. You are ill, but it will pass soon. I will bring you a tea that will help you." You lower him gently on the pillows, and move away, but oh, the look of panic in his eyes! Immediately you embrace him again.

"No, I will not leave. I will not leave you alone again…" you whisper soothingly, and rock him in your arms. "I will not leave you alone…" Oh, what did he go through… A part of his mind is still there, outside in the mountains. He fears that the illusion of warmth and safety will dissolve, and he will find himself there again, without help. Did he have such illusions in his suffering? Did he imagine being here, safe in the arms of his father, only to wake up into the cruel reality? Oh Aragorn… This is no illusion, no hallucination. You are safe…

Instead of leaving, you hold him close, and call for someone. Soon a golden-haired Elf enters the room. His face is familiar… Glorfindel! It feels as if in another life... I have a vague memory of running, my mother clutching my hand, a long shadow before me, swaying in the rhythm of my steps and the flames behind – a burning city. When I looked behind, there was a tall golden-haired figure, framed by flames... That is my last memory of him, protecting our retreat. He was there then, and he is here now – who else would protect my son better then the one who protected me for the price of his own life? For the whole night did he sit before the doors and wait, but did not dare to enter the room. He looks as worried as you, but his face brightens when he sees Aragorn awake.

"Welcome back, Elrondion…" he smiles with relief. But Aragorn doesn't hear. He clutches your hand desperately, as if it could disappear... Your eyes meet with Glorfindel's, and he nods sadly. He understands... Quickly you give him the instructions for the tea, and he leaves. I see him running through the hall... You stay alone with your son again. You stroke his hair gently, and whisper words of comfort.

Sooner then I would think possible, Glorfindel returns, carrying a steaming mug. "Do you need anything more?" he asks you then, and you thank him, but do not perceive the question fully, your attention is already with your son. Glorfindel watches for a moment, but then he leaves again, and returns to his place at the door, ready to help if needed, but not wanting to disturb. These moments belong to you... I am glad that he is there for you. You have friends, Elrond, good friends.

You bring the cup to your son's lips. "Drink, Estel. It will help you." And he obeys gladly: he is thirsty, and the warm liquid soothes the pain in his throat. But after the first sip he grimaces in disgust. Ah, a _healing _tea… Aragorn, do you remember the warm sheets, and hot tea that I promised you? Well, _this_ tea is not what I had in mind, honestly.

What tea is it, Elrond? Against pain, against infection? I hope it will help… You smile encouragingly, and he drains the cup, too weak to protest, too thirsty to care about the taste. His eyes seem a bit brighter after it, finally he seems to realize that the warmth and light will not dissolve into cold darkness. With a sigh his body relaxes. Then he closes his eyes wearily, and you kiss him on the brow, and tuck the covers more closely around him. Soon his breath evens out. He sleeps.

The light of fire dances on his face, so calm and peaceful. Finally, a true peace, and true rest. You watch his face, every line, every feature. You trace it softly with your fingers, a hairbreadth above it, and peace is in your face, too.

Elrond, my son, do you marvel in him? Do you savor the feeling of his breath, his heartbeat? Do you savor the feeling that he lives? Hard years are written in his face. Fights and travels, pain and hardship. The disdain from those he protects, the lonely watches in cold nights, hunger, and grief for the fallen... You know the hardness of the ways he had to walk, and of the ones that he will have to walk yet. You cannot protect him. You must let him go, go through the fire, like a blade of hardened steel to achieve its full power – or break.

You know it… but now, just for this while, you can hold him, like you held him when he was a little boy, hold him close and marvel in his face, in his peaceful breath, his steady heartbeat. You sigh, and close your eyes. And as you fall asleep with your son in your arms, the corners of your mouth lift in a slight smile.


	15. October 7th

October 7th, 2986 T. A.

Two riders are nearing the gates of Rivendell. They cloaks are muddy, and their shoulders slumped. The twins return to the house of their father – with their hands empty, and their hearts heavy – they didn't find the one they were looking for. Their posture, the way how they lead their horses to the stables, how they slowly walk to the gate... everything expresses defeat. I cannot help myself but smile when I think of the surprise that awaits them…

It takes them too long… Slowly they wash, and change their clothes. They eat in the kitchen, and send away everyone that wants to tell them the good news. They want to be alone… Ah, it takes too long! I cannot look at them, in their dark mood. Go upstairs finally! If you only would see yourself, the expression of serious sadness, the heavy silence between you; as it envelopes you like a cloak… I cannot look at it any longer! Go and see!

There comes Glorfindel. With the authority of your teacher and mentor he breaks through the veil of silence enveloping you. The expression in his face is unreadable. "Your father wants to see you immediately. In Estel's room…" is the only thing that he says. Ah, he plays my game with the surprise! I would pat him on the back if I could… Even the tone of his voice says that you should better obey. Now.

And it works! Quickly you look at each other, and then turn, and slowly head upstairs. The same frowns are on your faces, the same dark thoughts are running through your mind. I know the thoughts, my grandsons. How will you tell it to your father? How will you come before him with empty hands? How will you face him – and even in this room… Failure. Defeat… You do not look back. Only I see the spark in Glorfindel's eyes…

You hesitate before the door, and look at each other for encouragement. Come on, brave warriors! You have faced orcs, beasts and men, and you didn't waver! Finally you open the door, although the expression in your face is not very brave. Oh, but I understand… My heart would be as heavy as yours, if I didn't know what you will find behind that door…

You see. Ah, what a sight! They still lay in one bed – Aragorn, sleeping now deeply and peacefully after his ordeal, and Elrond, embracing him protectively in sleep as he dozed off again, tired after the many hours of holding watch at the sickbed. But that is not the sight that I mean. If you only could see the look in your faces, my grandsons! Confusion, surprise, disbelief, wonder… You don't look very bright as you stand like frozen in the door and stare open-mouthed… If only Glorfindel could see it… But I suppose he can imagine…

Then, as if some spell holding you passed, you move. Relief… Overwhelming relief pushes back all other emotions. I smile with you. With you, not at you. I never meant to, and I'm sure Glorfindel didn't either. After all the worries and tension of these days, we both needed a respite, I think. And I'm so glad that your worries lifted, too, and the cloak of dark thoughts dissolved in the golden light of fire in this room. For a moment I wonder why my own mood is so bright today. It is an unusual feeling. When did I last feel true joy? No, I don't remember. It is too long... But, for some reason, I want to laugh today; I want to embrace the whole world. I want to embrace you, my grandsons...

Before you even reach the bed, Elrond wakes. For a moment you look at each other. He smiles. "You are late, my sons…" I see the echo of my joy in his eyes.

"_Adar_… How? When?" is your first question. He motions for you to sit down, and then he explains, shortly and quietly, to not wake the one of his sons sleeping in his arms. He does not mention the light that guided him. It is not the right time yet… For a moment silence veils the room. The joy is still in my heart, but it becomes more solemn, and quiet. It is the joy of being able to help...

"Oh, little brother…" you whisper in a choked voice. He does not hear you. He sleeps. A much deserved sleep… He looks so frail, so weak. The unshed tears in your voice discern how close you were to losing him. _Oh, little brother… _But it is over, and he is safe. Rojoice with me, my grandsons! No, you can't yet - there is still a trace of shadow in your heart, the thought on what he had to go through while you couldn't find him...

"Please, get some rest, _Adar_. We will stay with him," you say, and Elrond hesitates. I know… the look of panic in Aragorn's eyes when he wanted to leave is still fresh in his mind, as is in mine. He looks at you, a long look, and then he nods slowly. I watch you too, and I see what he does: the relief of an unexpected finding after a futile search, but beneath it, a hint of failure – it were not you who found him. And desire to amend the supposed mistake, to be useful, to be able to help... Oh, I understand...

"Maybe I should," Elrond says finally. "He may need me later… But…do not leave him alone."

Your faces brighten a bit, almost offended for the thought of leaving your brother. Elrond guessed correctly... I smile. Yes, he knows his children... as I know mine. He loosens his embrace reluctantly. Aragorn stirs, and moans from his sleep, but he doesn't wake, and soon his breath evens again. Elrond lingers for a while longer, but then, with many instructions, and one last long look, he leaves.

I see him standing beyond the door with a thoughtful look. Then he looks at me - and smiles, shrugging his shoulders. "Could I do something else?" tells his look. I laugh. No, my son, you couldn't. But they are right in one thing: you should get some rest... Aragorn is in good hands.

* * *

The twins sit at each side of the bed, silent and watchful like two sentries. Not minding that they are home, their faces promise punishment to everyone who would want harm to their little brother. As if they wanted to compensate that they couldn't protect him before…

The hours pass, and they almost do not move. The silent guardians… And then: Aragorn wakes. In a moment they are at his side, and lean over him. He tries to focus his eyes. "El…?"

"Yes, little brother, we are with you. How are you?" A pause." I thought you would be able to discern us after all this time…"

He smiles, and, for a moment, the lines of suffering in his face fall away. "Of course, El…ladan. I'm glad… you're here…"

Elladan nods with a smile of his own. "We are. But you should come home more often..." But there is concern behind that smile. "Are you in pain?" he asks.

"It's... much better now..." Aragorn reaches to him weakly, and Elladan takes his hand. It is so thin and bony… Elladan frowns. "How long since you've last eaten, Estel?"

"I… don't know…"

Oh, but I do, I do. Too long…

"Oh Estel… I will bring you something from the kitchen."

"…and I will stay with you while Elladan is away," adds Elrohir almost immediately.

Aragorn smiles faintly, and curls in the bed. So he already knows, and feels, that this time Rivendell is no illusion. That is good… With such guardians, everybody would feel safe...

"Are you thirsty?" Elrohir asks, and Aragorn nods.

"Good, because _Ada_ left here some tea, in case you wake…."

Aragorn moans.

"He was very insistent in his orders…" Elrohir continues sympathetically.

Aragorn sighs resigned. "Do... what you must... brother…"

Elrohir laughs. "I really must. But I'm sure that Elladan will bring something tastier, so hold on for a while. But until then…" he says almost apologetically.

From the look in Aragorn's face I see that I really should be more careful about promising tea to someone, when Elrond is involved… But it helps, and that is what matters. Already his eyes are brighter, and the pain lessened. I know it, and he knows it too. And so he drinks without complaint. Soon Elladan comes with a bowl of steaming broth. Yes, that is what I had in mind when I promised you warmth and safety for that few steps. It feels so unreal now… But oh, it was real then. Too real.

Aragorn smiles, and Elrohir helps him to prop on the pillows. He even reaches for the spoon with the bandaged fingers. The tea really helps, it seems. But his hand trembles too much. He is too weak yet. Without a word Elladan takes the spoon from him, and begins feeding him gently. A true big brother… It will take much more meals to fill the sunken cheeks, but it is good to see the beginning.

After the bowl is almost empty, he helps Aragorn to lie down again, and strokes his hair. For a moment he is quiet. He looks out of the window, to the mountains. "It is good to have you home…" he says finally. "We thought you lost. We looked everywhere, and we couldn't find you…." His voice trails off, as he beholds the sudden look of pain in Aragorn's face, the look turned to something that they can't see. I am the only one who understands. I have seen…

For a moment he is back in the valley, and the sounds of battle sound in the brisk air – the voices of his brothers, mixed with the clang of steel and cries of orcs. He calls – but the wind tears the cries from his lips, and makes them a part of its howling. He tries to rise – but his strength betrays him. The sounds of battle silence. The receding hoof beats. Quiet… They left. Nobody will help him now. There is no reason to fight anymore…

"Estel? Estel!"

His eyes focus on his brothers' faces again. He shivers.

"Estel, what is wrong? Should we call _Adar_?"

He shakes his head, as if waking from a bad dream. "No. No… it's nothing. Just… a bad memory. I'm glad… you are here…" he smiles slightly, but I can still see the echoes of the memory in his eyes.

"Shhh, little brother. It's alright. Nothing can harm you here. It's over…"

He nods, and closes his eyes tiredly. Oh Aragorn… You will not tell them. You will not tell them how close they were. You will not tell them about the pain and despair of their leaving. They would never forgive themselves… you know them too good. It's better if they do not know… Even now, under the weight of the memories, you care for them more then for yourself… Who are you, Aragorn? You are like a memory of old times and noble deeds. You are like an echo of Elros' and Elendil's voice, like a kingly blade that was tried by the fire, and reforged for great deeds. Rest easy, my child. Your brothers watch over you… And I watch over you all…


	16. October 8th

October 8th, 2986 T. A.

---

Autumn came to Rivendell in its full glory. The scent of falling leaves fills the air as they fall into the river that bears them down with its stream like small funeral boats of summer. The trees whisper their farewells to them, dignified like a mourning queen. The days shorten, and the nights are cold and dark. But the darkness has no strength over the Last Homely House. I see Elrond. He stands at the window, and looks to the stars. His eyes seek me, and when our sights meet, he smiles. It is a smile of gratitude, but there is something deeper in his look. Forgiveness… With the same look he gives it, and asks for it.

My son… There is nothing that I could forgive you. I know what is in your mind – that you almost forgot me; that I became just another star of the night sky emblazoned with legends. It was I that left. The Sea called to me, and I couldn't resist that call. The journey was too uncertain and dangerous. I didn't know if I would return… And so I left you where I thought you will be safe. If I knew about the next kin slaying brought by the cursed oath… If I knew that I will reach the White Shores, I would take you with me. But I didn't know… and I didn't return.

You forgive me, my son… It means so much to me, that I can't express it with words. It brings peace to my wandering soul. I know that I made the right choice. I do not mean the right thing for Middle-earth now. Finally I know that, at the end, my choice helped you, and that I am not as helpless watcher as I thought. I am here – until the Moon itself should fade, I will be here. My light can show you the way on a dark path, like it can give you hope in the dark times. If I would not leave, I wouldn't be here when you needed me, I wouldn't show you the way… It is a poor compensation for a father, I know... but I'm glad that my choice led to something good for you, too... There is nothing to forgive, my son. No, I thank you for not forgetting me, and I thank you for your forgiveness.

Elrond steps away from the window, as if to allow me to look at someone else, someone confined to bed. Aragorn looks much better now. His eyes are bright, and some color already returned to his face. I remember the picture that I saw just a few days ago: the pale face and lips with bluish tint, half opened in a moan of pain, the crusted blood on the temple... Tears are in my eyes, but smile is on my lips as I see him now, awake and in the care of those who love him. His brothers are sitting on both sides of the bed, still the mighty guardians, although not so silent anymore. Probably, they took a self-appointed task to entertain him with their stories… making him forget the ordeal...

Elrond listens for a while, smiling to himself. Then he reaches for his harp, and they silence expectantly. He plays it only rarely, but he is a skilled musician… he had a good teacher. Yet for some reason I felt a pang of pain every time he played the harp. His teacher was Maglor. He was where I should have been, and I could only watch. He raised my sons as his own. He taught them to fight, to play the harp; he was there when they were ill. He was there when Elros fell off his first big horse and broke his arm… He was there when I could not…

Aragorn looks at Elrond while he plays. Suddenly, Arathorn's face is before my eyes. He too could not be there to raise his son. He could not see him growing up and becoming the man that he is now. But someone was there to teach him, to soothe his hurts… to find him when he is lost and alone, to sit at his bed for long hours and guide him back from the border of death… to play the harp for him… If Arathorn could know, I'm sure that he would be thankful. And I, I know…

Thank you Maglor… wherever your restless spirit wanders now, thank you for raising my sons… You taught them to play the harp much better than I ever would, you know… I listen to Elrond's song. It is an old song, and I have heard it many times. Never before has the song touched me so. Somehow, through the hands of my son on the strings, it connects us, Maglor…

_Eärendel arose where the shadow flows__  
__At Ocean's silent brim;__  
__Through the mouth of night as a ray of light__  
__Where the shores are sheer and dim__  
__He launched his bark like a silver spark__  
__From the last and lonely sand;__  
__Then on sunlit breath of day's fiery death__  
__He sailed from Westerland…_

The song ends, and Elrond smiles at his sons. Now the time is right... "I will tell you a story," he says. "A true story, about a ray of light that showed me the way… to you…" he touches Aragorn's cheek tenderly. And he speaks. I listen with bathed breath – just like them. I know the story, but it feels so good to listen to it.

Elrond ends and silence envelops the room. Four sights turn to the night sky. "Grandfather? Does he see us now?" Elrohir asks a bit uncertainly. I must laugh at his expression. Yes, grandson, I do… I see you even when Glorfindel doesn't…. Elrond, I hope that you showed them my picture, so that they can imagine me, and not some glorious eight feet tall warrior with an adamant helmet and silver habergeon…

But Aragorn looks at me, as he did before, among the cold stones, with that look touching my soul. "He was there…" he whispers. _Ah…_ Elrond looks at him in surprise, and Aragorn continues. "When I lay in the valley, losing hope that I will ever see Rivendell again… I saw Gil-Estel. And suddenly I knew that he is there… watching me. The light gave me strength to hold on…"

Elrond has no words for an answer. He embraces his son. "Oh Estel…"

Oh Estel… I knew it. I knew that you have seen me. My light… That was the only thing that I could give you. Maybe it was more than I thought… I cursed my helplessness, but maybe I have more then I realized. While I can be here, while I can bear the light... That is the gift that I thought a curse when I lost my own path in all the darkness and despair of these times. And you helped me to find it again. When you refused to give up, when you looked up, and sought me, you reminded me on my purpose. You sought your hope in me, and you returned me my hope. The hope for the restoration of the old glory, the hope for the day of peace and a night without darkness, the hope for Middle-earth.

I ask again: who are you, Aragorn? You are the one that can bring the restoration, Envinyatar. You are like a clear sound of a horn in battle, pouring courage into the hearts of men. Estel, your father calls you. I must feel a bit of pride when I think about the name. And I wonder: did he think of me when he chose the name? Did he name you after me? No, I think that he saw in you from the beginning what I saw only now. Maybe he remembered the first rise of the new star, of the Star of High Hope. Because you are like that, Aragorn. You are like a light of hope rising on the sky to show way to the lost. You are like Gil-Estel…

* * *

_Éalá Éarendel Engla Beorhtast (The Last Voyage of Eärendel)_ – J. R. R. Tolkien: The Book of Lost Tales II, "The Tale of Eärendel"


	17. October 9th

October 9th, 2986 T. A.

---

Today I sat upon the hill of Ezellohar, under the Trees. They are beautiful even in their death, like a monument of what have been. Now their branches reach to the sky like hands in a sign of farewell, forever frozen in the stillness of death, and their silver and golden leaves have fallen long ago, leaving them naked under the dim light of their last blossom and fruit. Rarely does anyone come to this place - it is a place where Death touched the Undying Lands. The pain of loss is still deep in the hearts of those who have seen their light in the old, glorious days.

To me, it does not bear the bitter memories, just a deep sadness in the roots under the green grass. Here, in the heart of Valinor, I feel a strange connection to the shores that I have left behind, where time is not so kind to their inhabitants. And… it is peaceful here, a good place for thoughts. I sat there for hours, and my face was turned to Taniquetil.

It was a good place to think about the Valar. How long do I already live here, in their realm? Since the last battle when Thangorodrim fell, they didn't leave it. Since the fall of Númenor Valinor was taken from the Circles of the World. It seemed as if they wouldn't care for the things out of their realm anymore. But I, I had to sail and watch, see what they didn't want to see. This I thought just a few nights ago: they didn't want to see… and maybe I have seen too much: too much of suffering, of the darkness veiling the Mortal Shores.

Valar… I cursed them, and they forgave me. I didn't even think that they heard me when I said the words of blasphemy. I didn't think that they care. Can a mortal understand them? Or a sailor who chose immortality because of his sweet wife… No, I think not. But I think that I understand them better now, better as I did a few days ago. They know much, but not all. They do not see all ends like the One that sounded the first chord does. They care, they didn't stop to. But they do not act – not in this age of world when the Second Theme of the Great Music fades slowly, and the Third Theme resonates stronger than ever before. They shape their own music – Ilúvatar's Second-born Children. And the Valar let their song sound. They do not interfere with it.

In Númenor, the distant glimpse of Tirion in the Blessed Realm was enough to twist that song and tempt the hearts of Men. Of my descendants... It is a bitter thought. Not the dread of Morgoth, not the flame of his dragons, but the hearts of my descendants changed the shape of Arda most – Númenor disappeared under the waves, and Valinor was taken from the Circles of the World. Yet I saw no wrath in the face of the Queen of Stars – there was love... In some way, they are as helpless as me, bound to not interfere that song to an end that they cannot predict. And yet, I am not as helpless as I thought – I could send the ray of hope, and show the way. And they are doing just that – sending hope and showing the way through the ship that sailed to the shores of Middle-earth carrying the five messengers, five Istari...

_The long roads are lost that led thither,  
and to mortal Men Manwë speaks not.  
From the West-that-was a wind bore it  
to the sleeper's ear, in the silences  
under night-shadow, when news is brought  
from lands forgotten and lost ages  
over seas of years to the searching thought.  
Not all are forgotten by the Elder King... _

For the fight against Morgoth, the whole shipment of Valinor sailed under the billowing flags and with the clear sound of trumpets. For the fight against Sauron – the Istari came in secrecy, in the disguise of old men. They do not fight. They do something else. Like in that night when the Queen of Stars came to me, and made me listen to the song of my own heart. They can make us listen. They can show the way… but we have to walk it alone, listening to our own Song – guided by our free will…

It brings a feeling of responsibility, to know it. I'm not counted among the Mortals anymore, but I feel it too, through my sons, and their children. Something tells me that you will shape the fate of Middle-earth, Aragorn. You are its hope, but if you fall, it will fall with you. Listen to the song in your heart, my child. It will guide you to the right path. And if it would be a path through darkness, I will be there to bring light to it…

Suddenly I realize that through you, I became the messenger of hope twice. First time it was when my pleas moved the Valar to the great battle. Oh, that was glorious… And Gil-Estel has risen. For the second time nobody will praise me, and yet it brings more peace to my heart. It was hard to leave my sons behind, and often I wondered if I made the right decision in my free will. But I know now: through the line of my son, a new hope has risen. Estel... Who can tell all consequences of our decisions, even after thousands of years? Maybe even the Valar can't. But I can see them, and it is good to know that something good came through the decisions, that the song of my heart is a part of a greater Music in the mind of the One.

No, it hasn't ended yet. A great fight waits still, and much is uncertain. But where I saw only shadows, now I see light, a fire woken from the ashes. I wish you luck, Aragorn. May the One watch over you…

I feel that the end is near: the end of this age. What will come after that, I do not know. But after the fight ends, after the weapons will silence and you will not look to Gil-Estel anymore - because no stars will be seen in the darkness, or because there will be enough hope for all in the world, then I have my own, small hope. It is not about Middle-earth, not about kingdoms. It is about you, Elrond. The age of Elves ends, already the ships are leaving the Grey Havens. Is there a ship for you, my son? That is my hope – that we will meet again, and I will be able to touch you, to speak to you, to hold you in my arms like I longed to do in the long years of watching.

Yet today, the hope has a faint taste of sadness… I dream about the day when we meet again. But like me, Elrond, you will have to leave your own son behind… He is mortal like Elros, and thus bound to Middle-earth in its fate – good or bad. There is no ship for him, and your parting will be forever. By death, or by the Sundering Sea, you will be divided. That is the reason why the thought of our reuniting is bittersweet.

When I sail again, I seek the now already familiar window in Rivendell. You are there. You do not look to me; your attention is needed elsewhere. Your son lies in the bed, but the sheets are pushed to the side – you are just examining the broken leg. With a look of relief you look up into anxious grey eyes. "It will heal completely," you say. And the grey eyes smile.

This moment will become a memory, and the memory you will carry to the West. And there will be more, much more. Like one father to another I tell you, you will be proud of him, like I am proud of you. That pride you will carry to the West. And one more thing you will carry, the most important one: your love. That is the bond reaching through the Sundering Sea, stronger then death. That is the bond that connects through distance and time, connects Elves and Men alike.

I love you, my children…

*-.,_,.-*-.,_,.-*-.,_,.-*-.,_,.-*-.,_,.-* **THE END** *-.,_,.-*-.,_,.-*-.,_,.-*-.,_,.-*-.,_,.-*

* * *

_The long roads are lost... - _J. R. R. Tolkien: Unfinished Tales_  
_

**A/N:** Thank you for all the wonderful feedback during this story! It was a great experience to post it in real-time, and live the time from September 23rd to October 9th not in the year 2009 of this world, but in 2986 of the Third Age of Middle-earth... And even greater experience it was because of you, who have read it, and encouraged Aragorn and Eärendil in their suffering, and rejoiced with them in their healing. Thank you!

And, I'm promising nothing just yet, but I have an idea for a sequel... ;)


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